


First Time

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-04
Updated: 2007-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's first time with Rodney; with a guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

The wash cloth's warm and Rodney's gentle, but as it scrapes over his belly, John can't help but shiver and huff a breath of air.

"Okay?" Rodney asks, glancing up.

John nods, because that's all he has in him right now, and he's not sure the words have been invented to sum up how over-sensitized his skin is, how every nerve-ending's still sparking at Rodney's touch, how he doesn't understand why he's lying here when surely he should be halfway out the door. He's never been one for lingering, hell, for cleaning up – in desperate circumstances he's wiped himself off on his boxers, balled them in the palm of his hand and pulled on his pants, gone commando for the jog back to base, trying to shake the lingering scent of some woman's perfume on his skin.

But today –

Today he catches Rodney's elbow, stops him from getting up, won't meet his gaze but drags his fingertips down the inside of Rodney's arm. He's asking something, though he's not sure what, and he figures when Rodney circles his wrist with long, blunt fingers and kisses his palm, he's saying yes. He really should ask him what they just agreed.

But that'd require . . . words.

Rodney carelessly throws the washcloth across the room. It thwaps in a damp heap close to the bathroom door and John blinks as it fades into grey and black, absorbing shadows, no longer important. He focuses on the one, limp corner that reaches for moonlight, but his concentration breaks when Rodney lies down beside him, strong-thighed and broad-shouldered, legs and chest and arms rough with hair. If there was a moment to freak out about having slept with a guy, this would be it, John prompts himself, this would be _it_. But instead he rolls toward Rodney's solid body heat, lets out an unsteady breath against Rodney's neck.

"No really, are you okay?" Rodney murmurs. "I know you enjoy wallowing in stoicism and manly reticence, but I'm trying to work out if I fucked you _up_ instead of just – you know – fucking you, so some sort of communication might be important. A word, a phrase if you have it in you. Heaven forbid I hold out for a entire sentence because if you _possess_ religious beliefs I'm fairly sure they revolve around the worship of masculine glowers and the appropriate raising of an eyebrow on occasion but – "

John kisses him, slides his lips to fit against the soft dent of Rodney's mouth. It's an unexpected place to find belonging but he's discovered they fit like this, the tip of his nose brushing Rodney's cheek, his tongue flicking gently against parted lips, breath pushing greedily into Rodney's mouth just as Rodney breathes quick and needy into his and they're kissing, touching, moving slowly from hip and belly and thigh with no thought of anything more taxing, more urgent.

"Oh," Rodney whispers when the kiss eventually breaks. His hand's cupping John's stubble-rough jaw, thumb rubbing tiny circles against his cheekbone. "Oh. So . . . yeah."

And John smiles – a lazy pull of deep-pooled affection, turns his face to kiss Rodney's palm. He slides one knee between Rodney's thighs, leans in to steal another kiss, and the guy who ran to every other door in every other bedroom and kitchen and bar is gone, shoved aside by capable hands that know the physics of loneliness, the mechanics of 'stay.'

*****

Rodney watches John sleep. He's no idea why he's still alert – he's not usually given to post-coital wakefulness. But he has an idea, a vague, battered, shiftless idea that this shouldn't be squandered, this dark-of-night moment; that he's meant to be lying here watching Sheppard breathe. If it weren't an idea that would suggest his brain's melting, neurons dying from sentiment's legendarily vicious effects, he'd consider that he's bearing witness, mutely claiming from the universe an overdue share of peace for the man sacked out cold his bed. But he likes his brain whole, and functioning, and sarcastic, so he dismisses the idea as the fruit of sleep-deprivation, closes his eyes and tries to think 'off' at his brain as though he's a piece of tech on a bench in the lab.

It's a tactic that might work, if not for the images behind his eyelids.

Without John's face to focus upon he sees instead his own hand, hours before, reaching out to grab John's arm. There's a flicker of surprise on John's face before he shuts it down, marshaling cold and distance and wariness to take its place. Fear churns slick and hot in Rodney's stomach but he leans in anyway, kisses John properly, meaning it, taking what's been his since they stepped through the 'gate and the world lit up beneath John's boot-clad feet. It's all it takes, one kiss, and if he'd known the ticket price was something he could pay he'd have kissed his way behind John's walls years ago, found this fractured expression, this heated need flaring desperate in John's eyes as they kiss again, as Rodney strips them bare and terrified and promises it won't hurt.

He plays John's body with a pianist's touch, alchemy and chemistry, spinning pleasure like an equation, John's ribs like the ladder of a stave. John sweats and pants and clutches and begs and when he comes with a sob Rodney hushes him, gentles, gasps when John tilts his hips and shocks an orgasm to the surface of his skin, his mind, his lips.

He fetches a wash cloth eventually, cleans John up with a gentleness borne of disbelief. But John catches his elbow, touches his arm, asks him wordlessly if he meant it (and some other things that get hopelessly jumbled in the calluses of his fingertips as, Rodney thinks, most things do when you handle weaponry too long) and –

John shifts and Rodney opens his eyes to watch his face twitch and relax in sleep. "Idiot," Rodney murmurs because there are a hundred words for love, but no one's yet quantified the distinctions between every shade of Rodney's insults, and Sheppard owns a dozen or more, curled trusting in his bed.


End file.
